A Daedra and A Hope
by TRB98
Summary: Boethiah is bored of the Imperial dominance of Skyrim and her champion has gone astray. When three clumsy adventurers are thrust on an epic quest for revenge, they will be exposed to a world apart from their humble existence in Falkreath. Who is the mysterious leader of the new Stormcloak rebellion? And which side will Boethiah's new champion choose as the secrets start coming out?
1. Graveyard of a Legend

_Just a quick word before I begin. This is my first fanfiction! I fancy myself as a bit of a writer and I believe the plot I have planned is amazing (if I do say so myself). Please take some of your time to offer any criticism or praise by reviewing and I will attempt to respond to all. I shall endeavour to upload a new chapter every few days. This story is set in 4E 205. All events after the destruction of Helgen are fictional. The Elder Scrolls franchise is not mine. All of the characters, the world and its location are propety of Bethesda. Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 1: Graveyard of a Legend**

Most wouldn't fancy the idea of gallivanting around Falkreath hold during the bitter nights of Morning Star. This is precisely how four silhouettes approached the old gates of Helgen without chancing upon a single soul.

Helgen is the graveyard of a once bustling town. It had met its end when some Imperial soldiers captured Ulfric Stormcloak and the Dragonborn and went to execute these high value captives. A great black dragon had arrived just as the Dragonborn was about to be beheaded and razed the town completely, allowing Ulfric and the great hero of Skyrim to escape. Now Helgen is simply a monument to that legendary story, which is perhaps the most popular among young Nords.

On this present night, Rasmus was shivering, not just for the cold, but in anticipation of what was to come. He, Faendal, Wolly and his loyal wolf Skooma had been tracking the group of bandits, no doubt asleep on the other side of this great slab of ancient wood, for 5 days now. The chief's head would earn him backslaps all round at Dead Man's Drink, not to mention a fair sum of septims from Jarl Siddgeir, whose horse the chief was unfortunate enough to have stolen.

Wolly was inspecting the gate.

'Shit! Rasmus, it's locked.' He whispered, 'I can blast it open but that's sure to wake them up!'

'There are two gates into Helgen,' added Faendal, 'they will bolt through the other one to safety the moment they realise they are under attack from this one!'

They were in a pickle it seemed.

'How could we be so stupid to forget a ladder, or at least hire a decent lockpick?' Rasmus thought to himself while surveying the high stone wall, praying that a gap or a rope dangling from the battlements would jump out at him.

As if reading Rasmus' mind, Faendal piped up, 'They wouldn't bother locking the gate if there was another way in.' It made sense, Rasmus knew that this was the case.

'Well,' he said, speaking for the first time in a while and turning towards Wolly, 'I think a fire spell is our best bet.'

Wolly and Faendal gave him looks of surprise, 'B-but we can come back tomorrow,' Wolly stammered, 'If we head for Riverwood now and set a good pace.'

'We will probably never find them again if they escape,' said Faendal, who was currently fidgeting with a roughly made arrow, a sign of nervousness in the elf, 'if prey knows it is being tracked, it is hardly ever caught.'

Rasmus took this all in and knew that his friends had spoken truthfully again, but he persisted with his notion. 'They will have moved camp tomorrow and have a days walk on us. If they are travelling further east, we will take a week to get home!'

Rasmus saw a flash of understanding in both of their faces and they agreed that blasting the gate was the correct course of action.

Wolly had a gulp of a deep blue potion, which he produced from under his shabby old robes, 'that shopkeeper at Riverwood charged me 50 septims for this petty thing. Robbery!' He then positioned himself around five metres from the gate and began to weave his magic. Skooma, who had been quite quiet and polite while her masters had been scheming, let out a small yelp as Wolly had produced two fireballs, one in each hand. Then, with a quick look at Rasmus, who gave a nod, he threw them at the great gate. The aftermath was instantaneous. The spell had blasted a crater in the wood, leaving a gap barely big enough for Rasmus, who was the largest, to squeeze through whilst making a tremendous crashing noise which could've been heard at the Black Marsh. In a flash, Faendal and Rasmus, who had been positioned just beside the gate, leapt inside the ruined town, weapons in hand. Skooma quickly followed suit and Wolly brought up the rear. By the time the wizard was in, two bandits, who had obviously been guarding the gate were dead, one with an arrow in his throat and the other had half of his innards splayed across the cobblestones. The adventurers knew that this particular band had 8 members; including the chief and that the other 6 now had sufficient warning.

Helgen had an eerie feel, which instantly made Rasmus feel uncomfortable. Human bones littered the road they were creeping along, which was lined with sorry shells of what must have been grand shops and homes. Even in the darkness of the night, massive black scorch marks were visible on the pale stone of the dwellings and thick grasses and vines were growing wildly all over the place. 'Skooma, drop it girl!' Faendal hissed in the quietest voice elfishly possible. Rasmus cracked a grin as Skooma dropped the child's skull she had been carrying in her jaws.

It didn't take long for them to spy the bandit camp, which was set up near the gallows on the east side of town. There was a clutter of shelters crafted out of animal skins and a couple of logs positioned around a smouldering campfire. The chief, wearing a particularly notable dwarfish helmet, was barking orders at his men who seemed dazed and confused as to why they were up in the wee hours of the morning. 'Perfect,' thought Faendal while loading his bow, 'they'll be easy pickings.' The adventurers were now behind their last cover before the camp, a single wall which must've once been part of a house, about 20 metres from the camp. Wolly, who wasn't the bravest of souls despite being a more than adept wizard, was looking positively terrified. 'They are packing up!' He squeaked, 'they are packing the fu*k up!'

Rasmus saw that Wolly was right and cast a nervous glance at Faendal, whose eyes gave away nothing. 'Get ready guys, they were bound to find their friends at the gate dead anyway. It has to be now.' Rasmus said the words a little too loudly, because the chief seemed to be starring right at them.

Rasmus, mouthed a countdown, his battleaxe in hand, then they sprinted towards the bandits, screaming like madmen. The sight of enemies appearing out of nowhere, just a stone throw away and yelling deafeningly loud startled the campers, but only momentarily as they had managed to produce an array of swords, daggers and maces before Rasmus, Wolly and Skooma reached them. However, Faendal had loosened an arrow and looked on in pleasure as the point imbedded itself in an eyeball. Five more. Rasmus and Skooma started double-teaming one bandit who had a particularly nasty looking curved greatsword. Skooma nipping his ankles and Rasmus trying to penetrate his mail with sweeping blows from his battleaxe. Meanwhile, Wolly, despite his nerves, had knocked three off their feet with a devastating ice wave and was proceeding to quickly giving each a running through with his sword.

Before long there flurry of weaponry had ceased and the companions felt their chests swelling in triumph. 'Now, for the chief's head!' Exclaimed Rasmus, looking around for the chief.

'He had that beautiful helmet,' Faendal reminded him.

Rasmus surveyed each of the corpses, then realised. 'There are only five bodies! He isn't here!'

This was the precise moment that the bandit chief decided to make his dash. He had been collecting his horse from outside the keep, with the treasure he had pillaged on his latest spree in a sack over his shoulder, laughing at how easily the adventurers had allowed him to slip away. Now he rode past them on the Jarl of Falkreath's steed at blinding pace, praying to the nine that he wouldn't meet the same fate as his accomplices.

Wolly, who was positively exhausted from casting such an advanced spell suddenly pointed, 'THERE! QUICKLY!' he screamed. Faendel had an arrow nocked in an instant and had almost no time at all to aim, due to the lightning speed of the white mare. The difficulty of the shot was especially evident to Rasmus when Faendal, one of the best archers in Skyrim, missed by a full length of the horse. A particularly small fireball shot feebly after the escaping bandit, but ended up causing the wall they had been hiding behind to topple over. The companions seethed as the chief laughed manically off into the night, well except Wolly, he was out cold from the effort of summoning that last fireball.

The air around the adventurers as they sifted through the bandits belongings for valuables was stale. The disappointment of failing at the final hurdle had ruffled all of their feathers. The fact that the chief had managed to take with him all of the treasure that the bandits had pillaged only seemed to compound their woe. At the end of it, they had found around 200 septims, a nice sword made of iron and a bit of wolf hide, which Skooma seemed to be eyeing off suspiciously. This haul would pay for the journey, but there was no profit to be seen at the end of 5 days of marching tirelessly.

Despite the fact he'd rather sleep naked in a cave with a frost troll for company, Rasmus agreed to spend the remainder of the night in Helgen, to allow Wolly to rest up. Skooma somehow managed to uncover some old mead which smelt of juniper berries in what must've once been the inn and was lapping it up gleefully. This would usually had produced laughs from the adventurers, but only lead Faendal and Rasmus to dread the reaction of the regulars at Dead Man's Drink back in Falkreath once they returned empty handed. He would make especially sure to avoid Skulnar.

Rasmus was awake long after the others that night. He had failed her again. He felt white hot anger and frustration coursing through his veins. He wondered if it was about time he got a real job, perhaps helping out at the graveyard or opening a shop. Sure, he loved adventuring, but he really couldn't afford to only come back with money one out of every four times. It wasn't that they were bad adventurers; they were just prone to making silly errors. He supposed that this time, the decision to alert the bandits was his fault. Last time, it had been Faendal who had accidentally led them into a Draugr infested crypt and the time before, it had been Wolly who accidentally killed the pet dog they were meant to be saving. Rasmus managed a ghost of a smile when he remembered the time a wolf drank the skoomas that they had seized from some criminal Khajiit. It had been worth the new friend he supposed. They were just an error-prone, no good pack of questers. He wouldn't mind if it wasn't for her, but he needed to pick up his act.


	2. Abhorrence of Cyrodil

There is only one thing Tomas liked about being an Imperial and that is that the Imperial soldiers which loiter around town helped him out just because of his apperence. Twice they had saved his neck in barfights and they were sometimes useful for acquiring contracts. But, apart from this, Tomas hated the very thought of Cyrodil and would gladly choose any other race, apart from Orc perhaps. There was a very good reason for this of course. But we may as well start at the beginning.

Tomas was born into poverty in the Imperial City. His mother was a whore; his father was a wealthy officer in the Imperial legion. He grew up on the Waterfront, the poor district and rarely had enough to eat. His mother only earned a handful of septims a week, forcing Tomas to have to steal food from the rubbish carts, which always seemed to be filled with the brim with half-eaten feasts from the wealthy merchants and lords inside the city. He used to dream that one day he would join the legion and travel to faraway lands, fighting for the empire. He used to.

Just before his mother died, when Tomas was 10, she gave birth to another child, a daughter named Catriona. It became evident that this was no ordinary child as she would not make a single noise and her eyes seemed cloudy. Upon being told that her daughter was blind and dumb, Tomas' mother knew that she would never be able to afford to keep the child. Therefore, she made the heart-wrenching decision to leave her newborn child on the doorstep of the All-Saints Inn, as she knew that the innkeeper was a good man. Tomas followed his mother at a distance, curious as to why his mother was taking his sister to the Temple District and partly because it was rare that he had an excuse to explore the main city. He looked on horrified as his mother, looking around shiftily, placed his sleeping sister on the doorstep of the inn. As she turned away to leave, the bark of a city guard made her jump. Tomas watched in horror as three men, dressed in Imperial mail started yelling at his mother, rife with expletives. He had been about to run out from his hiding place behind a packed up stall, when one of the men threw a devastating blow at her stomach. His mother was screaming, blood streaming from her face. Tomas' blood turned to ice. She backed away down the street, now filled with onlookers, the guards pursuing her, grinning.

Without thinking twice, Tomas found himself sprinting from behind his cover towards his sister on the doorstep of the inn, which was now a good five metres behind the guard's backs. Picking up Catriona, he turned and caught his mother's eye. She was now sprawled in the gutter, nursing what looked like a badly broken arm. Ignoring the bone poking out of her skin, he saw her mouth a single word. Run. At that instant, one of the guard's swords buried itself deep into her stomach. Tomas, his eyes full of tears, ran for what seemed like an eternity back to the Waterfront, clutching the baby and trying to force what he had just seen from his head. He knew nothing of caring for this tiny infant, but he would try his best.

He lasted around 2 weeks before he came to the decision. He said goodbye to the small hovel he had called home for his whole life and sought out some city guards, who he now despised beyond nothing else. An Imperial blade had killed his mother, yet he had dreamed of being a wielder of one of those fine pieces of smithing for most of his short life. Now, he felt only bitterness and hatred towards the Legion and the Emperor. Upon, telling the guards of he and his sister's predicament, they sneered at him and told him that he should go on being a street urchin. However, Tomas persisted. He had heard terrible stories (which were made up of course) of the orphanage at Chorrol, but he knew his sister needed to be cared for properly. The guards, laughing hysterically, informed him that a merchant caravan was heading to Chorrol later that day. That is how Tomas came to Cooper's Orphanage.

Cooper, the owner of Chorrol's orphanage was a fair man, but he hardly had septims spare for each of the children in his care to lead a comfortable life. He was very reluctant to take in Catriona, due to her disabilities, claiming the Eight had marked her, but he saw Tomas cared about her very much. In return, Tomas made money for the orphanage by tending the small wheat crop that Cooper had started. The heavy farming equipment built him up into a reasonably sized 16 year old, before the local recruiter for the Legion came knocking. Tomas reluctantly agreed to go into training, as the small bag of septims pay that soldiers of the Legion earned each week would be more than enough to sustain he and his sister.

Though he wasn't proud of it, Tomas realised he had no choice but to leave the orphanage. Cooper had given him shelter and paid for a maid to tend for his sister for six years now and had previously stated that Tomas would not be welcome come his eighteenth birthday.

Tomas excelled in training. He was the best swordsman among his group of new blood, as well as possessing quick feet and a wily combat sense. He had never even been taught how to hold a sword, yet the biggest and ugliest sons of merchants and lords were constantly bamboozled by his lightning quick swordplay. The trainers were full of praise for him, dropping a few extra septims into his weekly pay and even allowed Catriona to have her own bed adjacent to his. The other trainees found it highly amusing to poke fun at this at first, making Tomas out to be overly-sentimental, but they stopped after he broke Brutus' arm.

Not one week after Tomas graduated into the Legion, news of a rebellion in Skyrim reached the Imperial City. Ulfric Stormcloak had taken Riften and Winterhold and leaked intelligence suggested the city of Whiterun was his next target. The empire, having already lost Hammerfell as a result of the Great War against the Thalmor, were not about to lose Skyrim without a fight. Therefore, thousands of soldiers were commissioned into the Fourth Legion and the steady march north began. Tomas, not having a Legion assigned to him yet, was not optimistic about his chances of dodging the Civil War of Skyrim, being a newly graduated soldier. However, he received the surprise of being assigned to General Tullius' personal guard. It turned out that the trainers had put in a good word for him so that his sister could take advantage of the bedchamber in Dragonsreach (the keep of Whiterun) that was promised to members of this elite squad.

Tomas, who was forced to carry his sister at times, as well as his heavy armour and weaponry, felt far too anxious on the march to Whiterun to notice the strain of this load. Soon, he would be engaged in a fight to the death. The Nord rebels were people just like him, with people they cared about and who cared about them and he, Tomas, would be killing them. He wondered if he would rebel for Cyrodil if Nords had control. Then he remembered what those city guards did to his mother all those years ago. The sword in his belt was the same as the one that had impaled his mother.

A huge surprise awaited the marching Imperials on their way to Whiterun. As they passed through Helgen, a long time Imperial stronghold, they were stunned to see that the town was in smouldering ruin. The stink of burnt flesh was thick in the air and disgusting corpses littered the streets. There was only one topic of conversation on the journey to Riverwood. Many wondered aloud what could have killed a whole town, knocked down buildings and burnt stone.

The Imperial guards of Riverwood were quick to fill in the army. Apparently, in the time since they had set out from the Imperial City, almost a month before, Ulfric Stormcloak had been captured near Helgen and was about to be executed when a great black dragon appeared and razed the town, giving Stormcloak cover for escape. The majority of the soldiers guffawed at this suggestion, but as more and more people claimed that dragons were at large, they began to believe that it might be plausible that a giant flying reptile had destroyed an entire town.

After four months of constant march, the procession reached the Imperial stronghold of Whiterun. Tomas was quickly introduced the General Tullius and was ordered to never stray ten metres from the Imperial commander. While there, Tomas caught sight of a warrior wearing spectacular black armour. Whispers of 'Dovahkiin' and 'Dragonborn' followed him, but Tomas was just thankful that he wouldn't be fighting him. Just three days after the reinforcements arrived, a Stormcloak messenger approached the city gate. He warned that if Tullius did not follow him to the Stormcloak camp, the entire rebel force would march on the city the following day. Tullius refused.

The Stormcloaks came that night. The war didn't last until dawn. Ulfric had underestimated the numbers of the Imperials, who were struggling to find a patch of ground to sleep on in the vast city. Only around five hundred rebels, Stormcloak himself at the forefront, made it to the gate. Tomas watched the war from Dragonsreach, where Tullius had couped himself up, relieved that he would not have to take a life. The general was beyond furious that the Stormcloaks had not held their word and come on the next day. Tomas and the other members of the squad were caught off guard when Tullius ordered them to kill every Nord man in the keep, a price that the Nord race had to pay for lying to him.

This was the final straw for Tomas. Upon seeing his comrades executing countless men, he decided that he had had enough. He woke Catriona, dressed as a simple citizen and ran. Nobody stopped him as he streamed through the gate, his sister clinging to his back. He travelled about forty miles before he collapsed and made shelter near a river. He drew his Imperial sword and threw it as far as he could into the middle of the flowing water.

He didn't know how he ended up Falkreath. Or why for that matter. But Tomas finally stumbled upon the town after a few months of living off the land. He changed his name to Rasmus, destroying his last link to Cyrodil. The townsfolk starred as he stumbled into the town, his clothes in tatters, a wild beard and hair in dire need of a trim. A wood elf who was also new to town took him in while he was homeless. Eventually, he managed to build a shack behind the old Falkreath graveyard, living off a small wheat crop that he managed to start up. He grew bored of this quickly. Growing wheat was no way to live; Rasmus yearned to see the land. After meeting a couple of like-minded would-be adventurers at the local inn, he began to attempt some petty jobs that the steward and the guards needed done. Simple stuff like recovering stolen rings and killing some aggressive wolves. Four years of this went by, and then Catriona got sick...


	3. The Cat's Dinner

This was completely crazy, Wilfred was the first to admit it, but things had gotten desperate. Wilfred, Jorleif and ten of the finest and most willing warriors they could muster had journeyed for two weeks north-east to the Sacellum, encountering a particularly vicious bear, two bone-chilling blizzards and now this.

He had been hoping it would be easy, but he should have known. Jorleif was wary of something like this happening. She was not one to lend a hand for free, or so he had read. But what if they were being played for fools? The blasted cultists were probably laughing their heads off at the foolish Nords who thought a Daedric Prince would agree to help them.

Wilfred snapped out of his thoughtful trance and surveyed the campsite. Roggi and Jorleif seemed to be in deep conversation over a map, while the remaining warriors were packing up their tents and cooking tools. Just down the hill they were camped on, another camp was positioned, although this one was permanent, consisting of three roughly built hovels. Just three people lived there, so called priests, who worshiped at the shrine, which was not ten metres away from the nearest hovel. The ground was the purest white, which was not surprising at all, seeing as it was winter. To the east, huge mountains rose above clouds, forming part of the mountain range which effectively ringed the majority of Skyrim.

'-ten days march south-west,' Roggi was saying. Jorleif nodded, now turning his attention to Wilfred as he approached.

'Ready to go lad?' He asked. Wilfred nodded, turning to Roggi.

'Personally I'm not worried about the length of the journey. Have you worked out how we are going to pull this off?' He inquired. Roggi cracked a grin. 'Trust me; I'm friendly with the Orcs, although, I suppose I might not be for much longer, eh?' Jorleif was looking a little worried, but Wilfred managed the ghost of a smile. It was all well and good to be optimistic, but he was struggling to comprehend how such a feat was even possible.

* * *

Two days into the journey, better than expected progress had been made. Despite a run in with a couple of frost trolls, whose white hair was soaked red with blood before long, the party had covered almost half the distance to Narzulbur, largely thanks to good weather and a healthy downhill slope. Many of the men were beginning to look anxious, Wilfred included, daunted by the challenge they had been set. Even Roggi was starting to worry about what might go wrong and how dire the consequences would be. Every few minutes he would look around wildly for Wilfred, making sure he was still with them.

Roggi had always had a soft spot for the boy. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders at just seventeen yet seemed to be coping so far. Just six months ago, Wilfred had been working alongside Roggi in the mine, now he was pursuing a destiny that had been hidden from him for five years. Jorleif had come on his seventeenth birthday, just a few months ago, to tell him who he really was. Now, here he was leading what could be the true final stand of the Nords and all because a couple of crazy priests had given them a task. Stupid Daedra and their stupid sacrifices! Why couldn't they be contempt with a basket of sweetrolls!

Roggi was not the only one keeping an eye out for Wilfred. Jorleif was trying his hardest to march alongside the boy, but he kept speeding up and stopping, obviously trying to shake his unwanted shadow. 'He's like his father,' Jorleif thought to himself, 'willing to hear advice, but preferring to be independent and working things out alone.' When Jorleif made the journey to Kynesgrove to meet Wilfred, he was certain the lad would shy away from his past and therefore his duty, but he had been pleasantly surprised when he had asked when they would be setting out. If his father had treated him like that, Jorleif was sure he would want nothing to do with his legacy. But Wilfred was quick to step up to the task and they had set out to Sacellum as soon as a suitable guard could be mustered.

* * *

On the seventh day, as night was just starting to rear its head, the party stumbled upon a cabin, just off the rough track they had been following. The wind was stirring menacingly and many of the men were pessimistic on their chances of avoiding a blizzard that night. Wilfred, Jorleif and Roggi, who had quickly established themselves as the most important members of the group, approached the door and knocked, while the men set up their tents in a nearby clearing. There was silence, then the sound of footsteps, the sound of key in lock, then the door inched open, a single eye visible through the crack.

'Who are you? And what business do you have here?' a raspy voice greeted them coldly.

'I am Jorleif of Windhelm, former steward of Ulfric Stormcloak,' Jorleif jabbed his chest with a finger proudly, 'this is Roggi Knot-Beard of Kynesgrove, the general of our err...army,' Roggi simply nodded as Jorleif pointed him out for the resident, 'and this...this is Wilfred,' Jorleif concluded, now indicating at Wilfred.

The eye surveyed them, 'army?' the voice rasped, 'you mean nine miners who have blunt swords in their belts.'

Roggi took this bait, 'nine men who are accompanying us on a perilous journey which may well determine the fate of this land! Please, we were only curious to see who lives in solitude, five days march from settlement!'

The eye, which had previously been surveying each of its visitors with a piercing gaze, was now widened, perhaps in curiosity. Wilfred had noticed almost instantly that this was no human's eye. The door opened fully, revealing a furry face and body which were accompanying the eye. The Khajiit ushered them in, 'I have a soft spot for tales,' his voice was now lighter, the raspy tone now forgotten, 'you seem to me like you have a great tale to tell and so do I,' he said, 'come in, come in and we will trade stories. Oh and if I like yours, I might possess some spare beds' Jorleif flashed Roggi a truly scary look, but followed the Khajiit into his cabin. Wilfred knew that the confidentiality of their mission was important, but what was the harm in telling a lone Khajiit? Jorleif seemed to see it, but was too polite to refuse, but Wilfred would gladly tell his deepest secrets in return for a night of comfortable sleep

That was how the three companions came to be sitting in front of Alfred's fire. Alfred (a curious name for a Khajiit) was by no means rich, but his cabin was as luxurious as any traveller could hope to stumble on in the middle of the wilds of Eastmarch. The feline host cooked them a stew, which they gulped down hungrily, before they got down to business. 'So,' Alfred said, licking some stew from the fur around his mouth, 'you have a tale to tell?'

Jorleif was quick to nominate Roggi as storyteller, still a little irate at how he had got them into this.

'Right you are Alfred. Well, I'll begin by saying that this story is not one to tell your friends. This is the tale of our mission so far, a mission which could indeed end the Imperial grip on Skyrim,' Roggi began, pleased to see that Alfred's eyebrows were raised (if those were indeed eyebrows), 'Jorleif, as you already know, was the steward of Eastmarch in the time of Ulfric Stormcloak. He was one of the only souls who learned Ulfric's deepest secret, which I'm afraid I cannot disclose to you. After Ulfric was killed, five years ago now, in that reckless siege on Whiterun, the Stormcloaks were destroyed and the Imperials resumed control of the east, as I'm sure you will know.' Alfred nodded at this, for who didn't know this in Skyrim.

'Before Ulfric rode for Whiterun, he told Jorleif that if he died, Jorleif was to bide his time before rebuilding a new resistance, with a new leader in a few years when the time was right. Now -'

'How did you know when the time was right?' Alfred fired at Jorleif, who merely shrugged.

'A gut feeling? Besides, five years is nice and round and I would've been too old to fight if I waited ten... I missed the fighting last time,' Jorleif replied, not truthfully, though Alfred seemed satisfied.

'Three months to this day, Jorleif arrived at my home in Kynesgrove,' Roggi picked up the story. 'Ulfric had always had a lot of support in the mines there and Imperials were not crawling around everywhere, like in Windhelm. My foster-son Wilfred and I were among the first to join his movement and by the time we reached ten members, Jorleif decided to share his intentions. There is another secret about Ulfric Stormcloak, but I suppose we can disclose this one as we were so rude as to deny you of the first. You see, Ulfric was the champion of Boethiah.'

A stunned silence hung around the hut, as if Wilfred, Jorleif and Roggi didn't believe it themselves.

Alfred broke the silence after what seemed like an era, 'so the champion of the Nords was the servant of a Daedric prince.'

Jorleif nodded. 'He spent months at a time away from Windhelm, supposedly touring his hold, but one day he rode back into the city wearing magnificent armour of ebony. He never told anyone how he got it, well, except me,' Jorleif looked especially proud at this.

'The Ebony Mail,' the Khajiit gasped, 'so he was Boethia's champion! But why would he serve a Daedric prince? Ulfric hated the idea of being controlled, that's why he rebelled!'

Jorleif laughed, 'Ulfric, from what he told me, was a terrible bearer of the Mail, well in Boethia's eyes anyway. He only wanted to use the Mail in battle against the Imperials; you know how devastating it is rumoured to be I presume.'

Alfred nodded, but now Wilfred spoke up, 'No,' he said simply, almost surprised his voice hadn't disappeared from lack of use.

Jorleif now addressed him, 'Of course you wouldn't know! Well the Ebony Mail radiates some sort of dark energy that causes excruciating pain to enemies in your immediate surrounds.'

'The wearer of the Mail in battle is almost impossible to kill at close range. An archer is rumoured to have brought down Ulfric,' added Roggi.

'So you gathered a group of fighters, why?' Alfred inquired.

'Well, Ulfric believed that Boethiah may lend us a hand in starting a second resistance, should the first die out,' said Jorleif, 'he rid her of a particularly greedy champion, who used the Mail only for personal gain. Of course, Boethiah wishes her mail to be used in her name for some sort of cause, whether that be pillaging some treasure or fighting a civil war. That's what entertains her. So I imagine she was pleased when the leader of a rebellion was seeking the Ebony Mail. Ulfric believed that if some fighters following his legacy were to approach Boethiah, she would once again disclose the location of the Mail, which could be used as a symbol. Ulfric united the Nords of the east wearing that Mail, if another warrior were to wear it in the name of the Nords, people will pick up their swords again.'

'Indeed,' Alfred said, 'so you are off to kill the current champion?'

'No, we travelled to the Sacellum of Boethiah, but the cultists insisted we needed a sacrifice in order to communicate with Boethiah. We travel to Narzulbur, to kidnap the chief of the Orcish stronghold,' finished Roggi.

Alfred tried to take in this incredible tale. These men were putting their last hope for a rebellion in a Daedric Prince! It sounded crazy, but it was obvious how much they craved the eviction of Imperial control. Jorleif obviously had his full faith in the instructions Ulfric had left him and Roggi seemed to have pledged his heart and soul to the cause. The boy Wilfred was a mystery though. He was a small man, if you could call him a man at the tender age of seventeen, with chestnut hair and a quiet strength about him. Alfred had been eyeing him curiously during the recount. There was something about this boy.

'So, Alf, you have a tale for us I trust.'

Roggi brought Alfred back to the present. 'Certainly!' Alfred replied, 'it is nothing compared to yours but it will explain why you find me living this far from civilisation, off the main road from Windhelm to Riften. You see, I am a murderer.'

Alfred surveyed his guests and was not surprised to see looks of surprise plastered across their faces.

'I used to be a caravan merchant, typical of a Khajiit living in a foreign province. I used to sell fruit and vegetables just outside Dawnstar, sometimes travelling to Windhelm and even Riften, along with my brothers. Oh and by the way, back then, I was called Akmal. One day, some men, incidentally Imperials, struck up an argument with one of my brother about the price of his iron ingots. We Khajiit are fairly stubborn creatures, we are immune to bartering, trust me, there is no point whatsoever in trying to get a better price. On this particular day, the man decided to show my brother what he thought of 70 septims per iron ingot and chopped off his tail. I regret it, but I sprung up from my stall, leapt over my bleeding brother and sunk my dagger deep into the poor bastard's chest. Oh, and I slashed his face a few times for good measure.'

Again, Alfred managed a grim smile at the looks of bewilderment on their faces.

'Now, we Khajiit have a custom of adding prefixes to our names in certain cases. Unfortunately for me, one of these is murder. Simply the letter K. To have a letter K before your name is to be a marked cat. Basically, the wider Khajiit community shunned me. Nobody wanted to associate with K-Akmal. Even the smarter Nords and Imperials knew what I was, just from my name. Eventually, I couldn't take it any longer, so I fled in dark of the night, searching for a new life. I travelled all over Skyrim, brewing skoomas to support myself financially. Eventually I started a little Skooma ring in Riften, but the thane, the Dragonborn in fact, managed to rat us out and yet again, I was forced to wander alone.

I stumbled upon this cabin about two years ago now. The owner, Alfred, was good to me, teaching me how to live off the land, a simple existence in the forest beckoned. I must say, even after the old man died and I took his name, I continued to enjoy the serenity, only chancing upon other souls when I have taken travellers in for dinner. I've still got a bounty on my head in Riften and no Khajiit can look me in the eye. Such is my happy life.'

Wilfred, who was easily the least horrified by this recount, spoke almost the instant Alfred finished, 'come with us Alfred.'

Alfred seemed stunned, Roggi and Jorleif looked apprehensive.

'You would want a murderer and a Skooma-lord to be one of the forerunners of a resistance? Please, I have little patience for jokes,' Alfred said, almost angrily.

'No. This rebellion is about destroying a far more terrible crime than the one you committed. You killed a man who had maimed your brother. This is the same notion. We are killing men who have maimed our brothers...and fathers and uncles and grandfathers. This is your shot at redemption, we offer you the chance to join our movement,' Wilfred felt his voice rising.

Alfred was still unsure, although it was clear now that the boy was not kidding, 'give me some time,' he said, 'I will consider your offer, but for now, we must rest.'

* * *

The next day, Wilfred, Jorleif and Roggi returned to their men, whose tents were lathered with ice. The preceding night had been wild, Wilfred shivered all through it despite a raging fire being just a few metres away. The men shot the three leaders dirty looks, obviously not impressed with the hospitality they had received. Alfred, who was nowhere to be seen when the three were awake, seemed to have chosen to stay in isolation. Wilfred had hoped the Khajiit would join him, it would be nice to have extra company, besides, it had seemed like the beast-man had needed a cause, something meaningful to do with himself.

Wilfred had almost given up when Alfred finally appeared. The men were just about ready to march when he burst out of some bushes with a simple leather rucksack strung across his shoulder. Some of the men shot him looks of disgust, others of surprise.

'Lead the way friends.'


	4. The Price of Freedom

Success. Wilfred had never been happier to make a 12 day hike to a Daedric shrine. He, Roggi, Jorleif, Alfred and two of the miners were survivors of the ferocious battle at Narzulbur. They had planned meticulously and decided that a midnight surprise attack was their best bet. As Roggi had predicted, the Orcs were drunk off their heads and the fighting was relatively one-sided, despite the fact the Orcs had a three to one numbers advantage. Roggi had bellowed at the top of his lungs that they were there only for the chief, alive. Luckily, the chief had been quite unpopular among his tribesmen, half of whom cast away their weapons and spurred the Nords on. Alfred turned out to be quite adept with a pair of daggers, ducking and weaving through the forest of foes, stabbing and slashing at soft spots in the Orcish armour. Wilfred had hung back a little and let his men do most of the dirty work, for that was Jorleif's wish. Of course, there was no reason to kidnap a sacrifice if he was dead. The last hope for a resistance would die with him. After five minutes of clashing steel, the last of the Orcish and Nord blood had been spilled. The chief didn't seem to want to come quietly and be sacrificed, killing two of his opponents with great flails of his mace before Alfred managed to get a knife to his throat.

The cultists of Boethia were surprised to see the Nords return, three of them carrying a large-man sized bundle. Boethia had spoken to the high priestess just twice in her life, the most recent, just five days before this rag-tag band of freedom fighters first arrived at the Sacellum. Boethia had appeared to her in the corpse of the wolf one of the hunters had slain, telling her that the rightful heir to the Ebony Mail could only be summoned if the chief of Narzulbur was sacrificed on her shrine. Of course, when Wilfred and his companions asked for the Ebony Mail, the high priestess had known what to tell them, but she had done so without a shadow of a doubt that these men would fail. Barely a dozen men (and a beast-man it seemed) versus an Orcish Stronghold? The odds didn't look too flash.

Now as the boy, Wilfred she reckoned his name was, approached her, dragging the bundle, she spoke.

'You succeeded? I'm not going to pretend I'm not surprised.'

'It was an arduous task you set us, now I intend to sacrifice this Orc and claim the Ebony Mail,' Wilfred said, rather strongly, although he didn't fancy killing the chief.

'You, lad? No I don't think you are the champion of the almighty Boethia. He lives far away, yet, Boethia will disclose his identity to you after you do the deed.'

Wilfred was shocked. Surely he was the true champion of Boethiah? How was it that Boethia favoured another?

The cultist let out a harsh laugh, then spoke again, 'Boethiah loves nothing more than competition and toying with the wits of mortals. That is what entertains her; she loves a little blood spilled as well as confusion, even despair. If she wishes another to be champion, they will be champion.'

'Will….Will this champion assist my cause?' Wilfred inquired, still dumbstruck.

'I think Boethia wishes it. How could she let her champion miss out on a little rebellion?' The priestess replied, 'but enough talk,'

Wilfred took the cruel hooked blade from the cultists and moved up the winding stairs, dragging the Orc behind him, to the stone Sacellum. Ancient pillars stood in a circle around a wooden pole, positioned in the centre of the stone floor, which had a language that Wilfred did not recognised inscribed on it. Now all of the cultists, as well as Alfred and Nords were peering up at him curious.

'Make him grasp the pole!' the high priestess called up to him.

Wilfred, with shaking hands, pulled the rough sack off of his bundle revealing an off-colour (though it wasn't that noticeable) Orc. The chief was barely alive, unable to stand, so Wilfred forced his hand (and bloody stump) onto the pole. Instantly, the Orc rose into a standing position, oddly slouched, seeing as his hand was the only part of his body touching the pole.

'Kill him now!' came the shout from the small crowd.

Wilfred, avoiding the Orsimer's feebly batting eyes, steeled himself, and then drew the sacrificial blade across his throat.

Almost instantaneously after hitting the floor, the Orc rose again, now with a glazed look on his face. His lips didn't move as words flowed.

'Listen closely mortal,' Boethiah's voice boomed, 'to spark your resistance you need a catalyst. My new champion will provide that. My current champion is disappointing me, sitting around acting high and mighty, his successor will be bloodthirsty. But, to gain the Ebony Mail, which will unquestionably unite the Nords again, he will need to lose something. You must contact the Dark Brotherhood. Catriona of Falkreath must be assassinated.'

With that the corpse slumped down on the stone.

* * *

_Two Days Later_

The trek back to Falkreath was one of the longest the companions had ever made. Little of note happened; Faendal shot a wolf much to Skooma's disgust and Wolly must have broken some kind of record for loudest swear word, after he foolishly took a bite out of a Deathbell in his hunger. Conversation was minimal, especially from Rasmus' end, as the Imperial was lost in thought for the majority of the days. His friends knew what was on his mind, but knew they were unable to console him. The air was cool and crisp and the sun only reared its head for nine or ten hours per day, making it frustratingly hard to make good progress in a day's march. Eventually, after twelve days of almost silent hiking, the travellers rounded a familiar bend in the road to reveal the wooden wall of Falkreath.

Whispers followed Rasmus, Faendal and Wolly into the town:

'Did they kill him?'

'Where's the head?'

Rasmus couldn't help but feel a little guilty at his failure. The bandit chief that they had been hunting had stolen plenty of gold and treasure from these people, yet they had failed to apprehend him when cornered.

Instead of listening to the whispers, Rasmus focussed on surveying the town he now called home. Falkreath was defined by death. The bodies in the graveyard that dominated the south side of the town were those of warriors who had fought in ancient battles in Skyrim. A few small farms dotted around this graveyard, including the one Rasmus and Faendal lived at. The centre of town, like any, was littered with shops, all with incredibly unsubtle names which related to death, such as the alchemist, 'Grave Concoctions' and the inn, Wolly's home, 'Dead Man's Drink'. The biggest of Falkreath's wooden buildings was the Jarl's Longhouse, where the adventurers were currently heading to report their failure to the Jarl.

Siddgeir was not too pleased. The bandit chief that he wanted the head off had been unfortunate enough to steal a valuable blade from his armoury that had been the Jarl of Falkreath's for centuries. Skulnar had been busy, so he gave the contract to that blond Imperial and his little mercenaries. Siddgeir was not all that optimistic about how successful Rasmus and his friends would be; they were probably the most useless questers in the hold. Well, there were only two real questing bands in Falkreath and Skulnar and his crew were renowned as far away as Riften and Solitude. In fact, he had been clearing a cave up on the cliffs overlooking town of some incredibly aggressive Draugr when Siddegeir had been seeking someone to chase down the bandit, so Crap-mus and his clumsy mates got the job.

The door to the longhouse suddenly jerked open and Siddgeir jumped a little in his throne. He had been wondering how best to celebrate Skulnar's upcoming birthday feast, this visitor better have something good to say.

'My Jarl,' Siddgeir sighed as Rasmus and his friends approached his throne. It was obvious from the tone that Rasmus had used that this would not be good news. 'My deepest apologies, my lord, but the bandit chief evaded our capture, however we managed to eradicate all of the oth-'

'Save it Rasmus!' Siddgeir cut in, 'you have failed me too often! From here on out, you will no longer be able to attempt contracts issued by myself or my steward. Good day.'

The meeting was over as quickly as it had begun. Bowing again, the three downcast figures slouched out of the Longhouse.

Rasmus was cheered slightly upon returning to his farm and seeing his sister. After promising Wolly to swing by the inn later that night (although he would rather drown himself in his neighbour's pig's feeding trough), Rasmus forced himself to tell Catriona that he had failed. She made no response of course, but gave Rasmus' hand a nervous squeeze. It killed him to see his helpless sister huddled in bed twenty-four hours a day. She had contracted a terrible infection on one of her useless eyes, but refused to allow Rasmus to cut it out. Instead, she relied on a balm that the local alchemist, Zaria managed to whip up using some glow dust, butterfly wings and most irritatingly, a nirnroot. To keep his sister out of unbearable pain, Rasmus was forced to cough up around 100 septims for a jar of balm, which would last around a month. He sighed as he scooped some of the dregs out of the bottom of the current jar, which had maybe two days of relief remaining now. The problem was, he only had 30 septims lying around and was hoping that he wouldn't have to ask Wolly for cash again. Catriona allowed him to apply the balm, before dosing off the sleep, leaving he and Faendal with time to tend the faltering wheat crop out the back.

That evening, Faendal and Rasmus walked up to the Dead Man's Drink, to have some mead and catch up with some friends...and enemies. Skulnar was the chief of Falkreath's Imperial force a few years back, during the time of Ulfric Stormcloak in fact. After retiring from the legion, he had become Falkreath's pride and joy, taking only the most challenging contracts for he and his cronies. Rasmus and Skulnar had been mortal enemies from the moment their eyes met. Rasmus almost had his skull crushed by Skulnar's warhammer in one particularly violent bar fight. Faendal, Wolly and an Imperial Guard had to restrain the raging veteran.

After a few pints of mead, Rasmus was sick of the atmosphere at the inn. The refrains of noteworthy songs, the cliffhanging stories traded at the bar and the jeers of Skulnar were not fitting in with his mood. After saying goodbye to Faendal and Wolly and dumping a couple of septims on the bar, he made the trek home.

As he lay in bed that night, Rasmus was considering his current situation. His life was a downward spiral, unable to care for his sister and too hasty to complete a relatively simple contract. It seemed impossible that things could get much worse. He slept restlessly for a few hours, before being woken by a muffled...was that struggling?! Ramus rolled over in a daze, willing his eyes to focus. There was a clunk as the window shut, leading Rasmus to look in that direction. He glimpsed a boot, which seemed to belong to running man, judging by the panting. He got out of bed a crossed the room past Catriona's bed to get a better look out the window. He glanced at his sister, who seemed to have worn a red necklace to bed, and then he did a double-take. That wasn't a necklace...that was blood.


	5. Rage

Alfred had never felt worse. The skeleton with organs inside of it sat on wood of the old, abandoned house. The Black Sacrament had been a success and surely Catriona of Falkreath was at death's door. Of course, it hadn't been hard to perform, the previous occupant of this house, apparently a small boy not ten years old, had contacted the Dark Brotherhood himself. The skeleton was still there after the years and a pig had sufficed for the organs. Alfred's orders were now to wait for the Champion, who Boethia had said would find the resistance, not the other way around. He wondered what would happen if the Champion found at that it was he who had performed the ritual. Would he kill him? Well they would probably try, but Alfred would make short work of whoever it was. They had been quick to volunteer him to be the one to do the Black Sacrament, those bloody racist Nords. He was glad to be rid of their whispers of 'beast-man'. He was starting to regret joining this resistance, but Alfred knew now that he was in for the long haul.

* * *

Afterwards he couldn't remember doing it, but Rasmus dressed himself, picked up his battleaxe and knife, and was sprinting out the door in an instant. Thoughts of grief mixed with anger, leading to a blind need for revenge. She was dead. The poor defenceless girl he had carried from Cyrodil, who had never even seen her brother's face or said 'hello' was gone forever.

He ran faster than a startled fox towards the western gates of Falkreath. These gates were closest to his house so he figured whoever had climbed out of his window in the dead of night, undoubtedly the murderer, would have passed through them. There was a single guard standing by the gate, his torch illuminating the wooden gates, which he was in the process of closing.

'Stop! Leave them opened,' Rasmus yelled as he approached, huffing and puffing, full of adrenaline.

'Another one? Is there a party in the woods tonight? Eh?' came the guard's drowsy reply as he ceased pushing the gates.

Rasmus ignored this sarcasm. 'A man just came through? Where did he go?' he asked quickly, yearning to get back on the trail.

'I didn't ask. He was headed along the track.'

It was enough for Rasmus, who proceeded to sprint off down the road, willing the adrenalin to keep pumping through his tired body.

The night was pitch black and incredibly cold, yet Rasmus seemed to be unperturbed by these issues. The hunger in his belly was screaming for the blood of his sister's assassin and he was sure he would not rest until he apprehended them. He wondered where they were headed along this lonely western road. Surely not Markarth, for the Forsworn had overrun the ancient city and condemned all trespassers to death. In fact, he had heard a story of city guards attacking the Dragonborn on sight. He had never bothered the Forsworn in his life, why would they want Catriona dead? In fact, why the f*ck would anyone want her dead?

After a few hours of continued running, Rasmus was beginning to give up hope. His prey must have a horse or be a champion runner because he was yet to see a single sign of them. His battleaxe grew heavier by the minute as the sun began to show glimpses of rising and he was now stumbling, rather than running. He rounded a corner in the road, expecting to see another endless expanse of cobblestone challenging him to proceed. Instead, his vision was drawn to a pinprick of reddish light off to the left in the woods. Rasmus, his battleaxe now light as a feather had to restrain himself from roaring with delight as he began to creep through the undergrowth towards what undoubtedly was a small camp. He pushed away the last few branches in his path, burst into the camp catching sight of a fire and a tent and raised his battleaxe to strike. But there was no target.

Rasmus was now wide awake. The fire was freshly lit, the logs hardly singed and the sleeping sack in the tent was not even unrolled. On the plus side, it seemed the camper had left his weapon, a single hooked scimitar. 'Perfect for slitting throats,' thought Rasmus, feeling a fresh pang of grief as he left the tent - and was tackled to the ground. A man was breathing in his face, wild eyes staring into his.

'So you're the bastard who's been following me!' he said roughly, assuming control over Rasmus by pinning his arm on the Imperial's throat. 'You got a complaint about my work, lad?'

'Damn right I do,' replied Rasmus, who's battleaxe lay uselessly a few metres away, 'you killed my sister!'

With that, Rasmus delivered a knee to the man's groin. Feeling the arm's hold on his throat weaken, Rasmus, with an almighty effort pushed the man off him and scrambled for his axe. He whipped around and threw a hard hack, aiming at the man's haunch, which was protected instantly by the scimitar, which had been retrieved just in time. A swift backward roll soon had the prey out of reach of a battleaxe swing.

'What made you do it?' Rasmus screamed at him, as they began to circle, 'what did she ever do to you?'

'Nothing. You think I kill for personal reasons? No. I am of the Dark Brotherhood, you fool,' came the reply. Rasmus' fury at the assassin dipped a little. So he had been acting on orders. But who would be desperate enough to kill Catriona to employ the Dark Brotherhood to do the deed for them?

'Who asked you to do it?' Rasmus asked, his voice back to normal volume, though he didn't lower his weapon.

'How should I know? The Listener hears the pleas for death through the Night Mother, he tells me who to slaughter.'

'Listener? Who is this Listener?'

'You wouldn't know him personally, though he is a hero among you Imperials.'

'Who...is….he? I need to ask him a few questions.'

'He won't tell you who contacted us; you are stupider than you look. We pride ourselves on honest, dishonest work. We would never give away who wanted a target dead.'

Rasmus felt rage building again in the pit of his stomach. He had had enough of a chat; the bloodlust could wait no longer.

'You leave me no choice but to kill you. I gave you a chance.'

'You want to kill me, friend? I am an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood!' he said, rumbling with laughter, 'looks like I get to wipe out a whole family in one night then.'

Suddenly, the assassin leapt through the circle that the two men had been tracing, throwing a blow with the scimitar. Rasmus, who was caught off guard, only just dodged in time. In fact, he could have sworn a few of the hairs on his arm had been trimmed. It was his opponents turn to be caught off guard, as Rasmus whipped a knife out of his belt and threw it with devastating accuracy, burying it deep into the assassin's stomach, prompting a red river to begin soaking his black cloak. Rasmus was momentarily ecstatic, the bloodlust fulfilled as he watched his opponent moan as he pulled the steel knife from his belly.

'You shouldn't have done that.' The assassin spoke calmly for someone at deaths door.

'You fool, I have defeated you, now, how would you prefer to be executed?' came Rasmus' response.

The assassin flashed him a smile, 'I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this, I always make such a mess.'

Rasmus began to grow wary. Why was a dying man so confident?

The answer was terrifying. One moment, the assassin was feebly holding his bleeding stomach, the next, he was transforming. Cruel claws sprouted, his nose elongated, forming a snout and hair began to sprout all over his body. Rasmus was repulsed as finally before him stood a terrible wolf standing on its hind legs, its clothes now torn, strewn all over the ground around it as it stood a good three feet taller than the man it had been. A werewolf.

Rasmus had little time to stop and stare as the wolf lurched forward, swiping one of its terrible claws, catching Rasmus' cheek as he attempted to duck. The pain was excruciating, but Rasmus managed to keep his head and roll off to the side, out of claw's reach. Now, he was backing away, the werewolf advancing at the same pace. All of a sudden, Rasmus felt his back hit a tree. Quickly, without really thinking, Rasmus had stuck his battleaxe into his belt and was climbing the tree, which was a large pine with multiple large branches low to the ground, perfect for climbing. After scaling around ten metres of pine, Rasmus looked down and his worst fear was confirmed. The werewolf had begun following him up the tree, albeit a little more clumsily. Later, he couldn't say what made him think of it, but all of a sudden, the answer was clear to him. Whipping out his battleaxe, he began hacking at a branch which he judged to be directly above the wolf, which seemed to be too busy finding a new branch to grab onto to check what his prey was up to. Rasmus had never chopped so fast in his life, fuelled less now by bloodlust and more by pure cold fear. Eventually, just as the werewolf had moved within clawing distance, the branch gave a massive lurch and finally fell, catching the wolf on the shoulder, leading it to let out a howl of pain as it tumbled out of the tree.

The sight at the base of the lonely pine was hardly appealing. The werewolf had landed on its head, causing its neck to snap, which must have killed it instantly. The fur on its belly was dark scarlet from the knife wound and Rasmus, though no doctor was quite sure its shoulder was dislocated.

Rasmus was incredibly tired. The sun had risen as he did battle with the assassin-turned-werewolf and he had subjected his body to much physical exertion. He decided that he may as take advantage of the little camp and sleep there for the night. As he walked from the tree back to the tent, he noticed a single scrap of paper among the assassin's clothes. It was a note, probably from another member of the Dark Brotherhood, reading:

_Farkas,_

_The girl resides on a small farm on the west-side of town._

_Apparently, some filthy beast-man gave us this job; however he is quite rich, so make sure you succeed._

_Report to the Sanctuary upon completion, then travel to Eastmarch for payment._

_Astrid_

Eastmarch? Beast-man? It was all too much for Rasmus in his tired state. For now, he had killed the messenger yet he now he had his next target in his sights. Who cares how rich this beast-man was, he would die all the same, but only after Rasmus had asked why he felt the need to have innocent, disabled girls assassinated. These were the thoughts on his mind as he finally fell into a fitful sleep.


End file.
